


And they were ghostmates

by whichstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ghosts, M/M, Quarantine, Roommates, john winchester is the only major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:35:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25229179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichstiel/pseuds/whichstiel
Summary: Castiel moves into his new house, looking for a fresh start. With cosmically bad timing, as quarantine descends he learns his house is haunted by the ghost of Dean Winchester.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 51
Kudos: 187
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Woollycas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woollycas/gifts).



> I wasn't going to write a quarantine story but woollycas shared [Pick Your Quarantine House](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EYQOzMjVcAEKnY7.jpg:large) with me and the answer was immediately obvious. GHOSTS, please. 
> 
> The title was instant, obvious, dumb, and also my favorite thing. So, I had to write a story.

**February**

The computer screen illuminated the kitchen in blue and lit the man hunched at the table. The lines of his body transformed into a soft sketch against the evening shadows. Castiel frowned at the spreadsheet and pecked the delete key, removing the latest nonsense entered into the active cell. “Is it my keyboard?” he wondered aloud, picking up his laptop and examining the keys closely. “Because every time I get up I come back to numbers. Letters.” Castiel sighed and unplugged his computer from the wall outlet. “Nothing coherent. Damn old houses. I hope there isn’t a short. Crumbs in the keyboard?” He upended it and shook it gently, but no offending debris fell out.

Saving his work, Castiel closed the computer and then stretched his arms above his head until his back popped. Outside the sun already skimmed the horizon. Any run would have to be quick. “The problem,” Castiel muttered, twisting his computer cord into an easy spiral and dropping it onto his bag. “The problem is it’s too easy to lose track of time. This is why working from home is terrible and I’m never doing it again.” The pronouncement sounded satisfyingly dramatic and he pushed away from his kitchen table and stood, navigating carefully through his kitchen, mined with moving boxes.

He stubbed a toe against the corner of a box. “Work life balance, Castiel,” he parroted the often-heard criticism. “You can’t spend your whole life working.” He surveyed the kitchen doorway, flanked by neatly stacked moving boxes. “Like hell I can’t.”

Most of his possessions were still wrapped in boxes, like he’d moved into a child’s box fort instead of a new house. He’d managed to be busy enough, or tired enough to avoid dealing with the mess. 

Except this week, they’d all been sent home when a pipe burst in the floor above his office. “Stop looking at me like that,” Castiel jabbed an accusatory finger at the unopened boxes. “I’ll unpack later.” A chill breeze stole into the kitchen and Castiel shivered. “As soon as I figure out where that draft is coming from.”

((( ༼ •̫͡• ༽ )))

**March**

“I think something’s wrong with this house,” Castiel confessed to Balthazar over the phone.

“Like termites kind of wrong? Because my place in West Palm—”

“They don’t have termites here. Or,” Castiel squinted suspiciously at his smooth wooden floor and stomped on it a few times, pausing to listen for scuttling insect legs. “I hope not. No, there’s something…” He grimaced at the kitchen cabinets, all closed securely, thank god. “Don’t laugh.”

“Cassie, I’d never laugh at you,” Balthazar promised warmly.

Castiel’s shoulders eased.

“Unless you deserve it.” Castiel’s deep sigh hissed into the phone felt like a fitting response, and Balthazar laughed. “Go on. Lay it on me. Oh, not you darling. Not yet.”

“Bal, are you with someone right now? Should I call back later?”

“Cas, you’re clearly in crisis. Tara can wait. Mmm, no the vanilla tonight, I think.”

“Bal—“

“Go on. My attention is all on you. But, ah, make it quick? What’s on your mind?”

Castiel swallowed hard, trying to formulate his story in a way that wouldn’t make him burn hot with embarrassment. “Ever since I bought this house things have been…happening.”

“Well, that’s awfully vague, my friend. Care to elaborate?”

“I think it started with my computer. Or maybe it was the lights. They flickered all the time. I thought it was the wiring, but the electrician I hired checked it all out. She said it looked fine so I—“ Castiel pressed the phone to his ear and leaned against the solid brick behind him. Being outside made this easier. Outside, he didn’t feel like he was bing watched.

He breathed in the earthy smell of spring thaw and it steadied him. “And then the cabinets in the kitchen… Sometimes I come in and they’re open. All of them. And I said to myself, it’s an old house. This is normal, right? And then there was the day with the vegetables.”

“The…vegetables?” Balthazar’s tone was unreadable.

“I come home from work and everything - I mean _everything_ is normal. Except for the kitchen. Every vegetable in my refrigerator was just…everywhere. Like a tornado had gone through my kitchen and just hurled it all over the place.” He lowered his voice. “And it’s so cold here. There are these drafts…” Castiel cleared his throat uncomfortably.

After a very long pause, Balthazar said, “What are you trying to tell me?”

Castiel cleared his throat. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Balthazar hummed over the line, unreadable. “You think your new house is…haunted?”

“It sounds crazy when you just say it like that,” Castiel said, nonetheless feeling a certain amount of relief at having Balthazar just come out and name it. “I’ve never really thought about... But I don’t know what else it could be and—”

“I can’t say I believe in ghosts,” Balthazar said slowly. “Though I suppose I don’t disbelieve in them either,” he added unhelpfully. “What I do know is that you’ve been under some stress.”

“Bal.”

“That dust up with your family? The way the business imploded? Cassie, it almost took you out too.”

Castiel pressed his thumb against the bridge of his nose, willing away his blooming headache. “You’re saying this is all stress. And I’m just imagining all this?”

“You bought that place on a whim. You moved there and started a new job without even telling anyone? Cas, you know you could have stayed with me until you got back on your feet.”

“I _am_ on my…feet,” Castiel growled. “Look just forget I said anything, okay? I’m sure you’re right. I just need to get some rest. Or something.”

When he hung up the phone, Castiel stared at the porch door warily and steadied himself. “I just need some rest,” he told the house. He edged back inside. “We’re going to get along just fine, right?” he asked thekitchen cabinets. “This is all in my head.”

The lights flickered in reply.

“Of course,” Castiel sighed. “Great.”

((( ༼ •̫͡• ༽ )))

So much could change in three weeks. In that time, he’d attempted to put his conversation with Balthazar behind him, instead focusing on unpacking most of his boxes. Perhaps if the house felt less empty, it would feel more like a home. Although he’d continued to experience electrical problems and inexplicable chills, focusing on work helped. Most days he stayed late at the office or spent his evenings at the gym down the road. He couldn’t notice the strangeness of his house if he wasn’t ever there.

And then quarantine descended.

Now, he refreshed the news far too often, and wondered how long he’d be trapped in his haunted house.

Chill blasts of air scraped through the halls and slammed doors that should be ajar, and immobile. There’d been no more vegetable explosions, but that was a small comfort. Like a punchline to a bad joke, after a rash of inexplicable cold and strange thumps in the walls, he’d find his kitchen cabinets flung open once again.

Castiel tried to bury himself in work, half fueled by a need to escape and half by a desperate fear that he’d be the first to be let go from his job. And then he’d be jobless, tethered to a newly mortgaged home that seemed to have a vendetta against him. He slept fitfully. He worked all day, the better to fill the hours. Time shuffled onward like a zombie in a horror film.

One evening, Castiel had finally fallen into fitful sleep only to stumble into a dream. In his dream, he left his house to go for a run and a powerful windstorm scraped the trees down to kiss the rooftops of his neighborhood. He ran from house to house desperately trying to lash down the whipping branches. The winches on the thick nylon straps he’d wrapped around the crowns splintered apart in his hands, shards cold - like ice slicing into his palms. “Come on,” he groaned into the wind. “Come _on.”_ But the trees kept knocking against the rooftops, punching holes in them and ripping through the strapping, and the cold just kept coming and coming and—

Castiel woke with his heart racing and his chest tight. He opened his eyes into the deep gray of his bedroom, spread his fingers across his chest, and gulped in long, shuddering breaths. A chill wrapped around the room. The walls creaked.

Something like a groan escaped from his lips.

His breath formed white stratus clouds, quick and fast. “Please,” Castiel said, not sure what he was asking, only certain that his dreams and exhaustion were pressing him into a wisp of who he’d been. “Please stop. Just...stop.”

Castiel could never put into words what changed, but the chill seemed to calm suddenly, like a friend settling beside him. The creaking stopped, but the cold remained wrapped around him like an arm flung loosely around his shoulders. Castiel had spent the past month nursing the paranoid belief that a presence dwelled in his house, but tonight was the first time it actually seemed like a comfort. He wasn’t alone.

Castiel felt the band around his chest ease. “Thanks,” Castiel told the ghost, or possibly nobody at all. Exhaustion turned him delirious, but in the small hours of the night he decided to embrace it. “Thanks for being here.” He pulled his covers tighter against his shoulders and shut his eyes resolutely. That night, and for several nights thereafter, Castiel fell asleep to the comfort of bitter cold.

((( ༼ •̫͡• ༽ )))

**April**

“ArcaneWorld dot com?” Castiel squinted at the package on his doorstep. It was addressed to him, and the address _was_ correct. Still, he’d remember visiting that website.

After another moment of hesitation, Castiel sighed and picked up the package. He brought it inside and opened it up, tipping out the contents and breaking down the box for recycling before washing his hands. Ritual complete, he returned to the package on the counter.

It was rectangular and long, wrapped in plain brown paper crumpled to keep it from slipping around in the shipping box. Castiel unwrapped it and then immediately groaned as the item was revealed. He stomped into his bedroom to get his phone and made a call.

“Balthazar,” he said moments later. “Did you just send me a Ouija board?”

Balthazar’s reply was a sharp snort of laughter.

Castiel sighed deeply. “As always, Bal, you are a model of restraint and charm.”

“I’m just trying to help you, darling. With your ghost problem? Are things still going bump in the night? And not in a good way, if you know what I mean.”

Castiel enjoyed a deep and all encompassing eye-roll, unappreciated by anyone except perhaps his resident ghost. If the ghost was real, that is, and not a product of his own stressed imagination. “I’m fine,” he protested. “And I don’t need a...a game. These things are a hoax. You know that, right?”

“But they’re great at parties. You have no idea how attractive people find a—“

“ _Bal_!”

“Tell your ghost I said hello!”

Castiel ignored the board, stowing it away on the shelf under his coffee table. If there was a spirit - and Castiel wasn’t ready to say there was - it was quieter now. Even the chill at night had eased lately. It was just Castiel…just _himself_ in the house. Nothing more.

((( ༼ •̫͡• ༽ )))

Castiel had always considered himself to be a bit of a recluse, happier on his own than in a crowd. Weeks of isolation paired with the strained intimacy of video meetings in his own home left their mark, however. Arriving home laden with groceries one day, he found himself talking to the cabinets in the kitchen with a feeling approaching desperation.

“I bought a lot of kale,” he admonished the air. “Because I’m feeling a little starved for green things. I’d better not find it shredded all over the kitchen like I did a few months ago. Do ghosts _eat_ vegetables? I guess it depends on whether you’re a Slimer-style ghost or…or somebody who died?” He paused in arranging vegetables in the crisper drawer. “If you were someone who died, who were you? There must be some reason you’re here.”

The question brushed against him as he settled back into work. It loomed as he walked the quiet hallways of the house.

That evening, Castiel kept his laptop open after he finished work and settled on the couch. With the television on at a low hum, he began to research the house.

He’d bought the place sight unseen. The realtor had described it as an amazing investment opportunity, a home priced low for a quick sale and close to Castiel’s job. Other than the ghost, it had lived up to the realtor’s claim that it was a solid purchase. The seller had also been remote, managing his end of the sale from California. At the time, this hadn’t bothered Castiel. Now, he wondered what the seller had been running from.

“Sam Winchester.” Castiel typed the seller’s name into the search engine. “Did you know this house was haunted? Is this why it was such a good deal? Did you run all the way to California to get away?” He rubbed a finger thoughtfully under his lip. “Unless this is all just me.” Castiel sighed. “I suppose I wouldn’t discount that. But it is odd. What do you know about this house, Sam Winchester? What were you hiding?”

For the first time in days, bitter cold spread like a blanket across the room. The hairs on the back of Castiel’s neck stood up and a shiver threatened to shake him down to his fingertips. He realized he was holding his breath and exhaled sharply. His breath misted over the computer.

Unmistakable, but muted, a voice spoke as though the speaker stood at the end of a long hallway. “Sam?” the voice asked. “Sammy?” After a long minute, and much closer, the voice called again. “Sammy?”

Castiel whirled on the couch. Dread struck his chest like a knife. “Who’s there?” he called, his voice unsteady.

The cold remained, but no answer came.

“Fuck it.” Castiel pushed his laptop to the cushion and dropped to his knees, fishing out the crisp spirit board. Ice crystals erupted across the room, spidering over the windows and popping the wood. The air smelled like an oncoming lightning storm. His fingers fumbled at the corners of the game board, unfolding it onto the coffee table. The planchette felt heavy in his hands. “I, uh, should’ve read the directions. I think you’re supposed to…” He set the planchette on the board and paused. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said with a short bark of nervous laughter. “But here we go.”

His pulse raced. His stomach turned. Castiel set his fingers on the planchette.

Nothing happened, except the creak of boards as his house groaned around him. “Maybe I’m supposed to…” Castiel cleared his throat. “Are you there?”

The quality of the cold changed, like light focused through a glass. The planchette jerked beneath his fingers.

Castiel let out a wordless shout and pushed all the way back into the foot of the couch. The planchette sat immobile on the board.

Frost cracked along the coffee table. Castiel swore, long and creatively. But he shook out both hands, slowly reached forward, and placed his fingers back onto the planchette. “Spirit?” Castiel asked tentatively. “Are you there?”

Beside him, his laptop flickered. The planchette slid to YES. Horror swamped Castiel so thoroughly that it gave him strength. This time, Castiel kept his fingers on the teardrop.

Castiel gulped. “Are you a ghost?”

The planchette remained on YES and seemed to vibrate. “Okay. Uh. Maybe that was a stupid question. I didn’t know ghosts were real. So I’m not really sure where to even begin but I guess…”

The pointer interrupted his rambling, sliding away and centering itself on the board as though it were waiting for Castiel. “You said ‘Sam,’” Castiel began again. “Sammy? Did you know the person who lived here?”

YES.

“Do you have…” What was the line? “Unfinished business?” The pointer hovered in the middle of the board. “Um, guessing that means you don’t know? Did this Sam Winchester guy…did he…” Castiel paused. Did he really want to know this? “Did he kill you?”

The pointer raced to a firm NO.

Castiel let out a shaky laugh. “That’s good, I guess? I hope? You knew him,” Castiel mused. “But how?”

The pointer slid down and to the left, moving like it was on a mission. _B_. It hovered over the letter for just a second before racing to the next. Castiel tried to memorize the letters hurriedly, his mind too addled to completely put it together.

“B-R-O-T-H-E-R,” he read at last. “Brother?” Castiel asked. “You’re Sam Winchester’s brother?”

YES.

“Oh.” Castiel looked around the house warily. “And you died here.” He’d delivered the question as a sure statement, but the pointer swung immediately to NO. “Are you looking for him? I, uh, don’t really know how ghosts work. He’s not here.” The fact leaked out with an accusatory tone. “Your brother is in California as far as I know.”

B-R-O-T-H-E-R, the pointer spelled out again.

A sharp breeze whipped around Castiel, kissing his cheek with frost. “Okay, are you trying to contact him? To, to move on maybe?”

The planchette swung towards the neutral center of the board again before sweeping down to the letters.

B-R-O-T-H-E-R.

Castiel sighed with blooming exasperation. “Okay, I don’t know what you need,” he said emphatically to the board. “Help me out here, okay? He’s not here. He’s not coming back. This is my house now!”

Wind screamed around the room, knocking photos from the wall and sending a stack of mail fluttering across the floor. Castiel flinched back, wincing and waiting for something to slam into him, but the force suddenly calmed like the room held its breath.

Carefully, Castiel moved his fingers back to the planchette. “Hello?” Castiel said tentatively. “Are you still there?

The planchette remained immobile under Castiel’s fingers. Gradually, the chill in the room decreased and his skin warmed. He shook with adrenaline. Pullinghis hands away, Castiel folded his arms across his body. He looked around his wrecked living room. “Hello?” he called again.

There was no answer, not even a whisper of a breeze.

Castiel stared between the board the the rest of the now-quiet room. “Well, that was easy?” he said finally. “I hope.”

((( ༼ •̫͡• ༽ )))

Castiel went outside after folding away the spirit board. He brought a gifted bottle of whiskey and drank it until his mouth felt numb and his racing mind dulled. The stars were out for a long time before he finally twisted on the cap and headed back inside.

The house was quiet. Papers dotted the floor like stepping stones and moonlight glinted off the broken glass from the fallen pictures. Castiel flicked on the lights as he walked through the house, until every room blazed golden. He got dressed for sleep with the light on and then turned it off, leaving the door yawning wide.

The lights were on in the hallway, casting a firm yellow light across the foot of his bed as Castiel climbed under the covers. He lay there for a long time, whiskey souring his stomach and adrenaline still spiking whenever he relaxed enough to feel like he was falling asleep.

After a long time spent tossing and turning, Castiel finally gave up. Head feeling less muzzy, he padded back into the living room to retrieve his laptop. The game sat on the coffee table, and Castiel turned from it resolutely, and went straight back to bed. He burrowed under the covers again, resisting the urge to pile them over his head and shoulders like he’d done as a child. He sat drawn into himself, laptop held close.

He began to research.

Searching Sam Winchester’s name pulled up a probate court legal notice for claims against the estate of a John Winchester from earlier in the year - Sam’s father, according to the notice. With a new name to search, finding news articles about the car crash was far too easy. _Deadly crash snarls traffic._ The dispassionate articles read more like traffic reports than odes to lost lives. The driver, John Winchester, had apparently died instantly. His son Dean was reported to have been extracted from the wreckage of the car in critical condition. “But you died,” Castiel squinted into the gloomy room. “And now you’re here. But for what? For last words for your brother?” He knocked his head against the wall. “That doesn’t help me at all. How do you get a ghost to move cross country?”

“Dean Winchester,” Castiel murmured as he scanned through the articles he found. “I think that’s who you are. And you’re right. You didn’t die in this house.” He looked around his bedroom. “I feel like that should make me feel better about all this, but it doesn’t.”

He rubbed a knuckle against his chin, staring blankly at his screen as he thought through the problem. “Is this an exorcism kind of thing? Do I need to get a priest here?” Castiel laughed shortly. “Definitely not. But if I can get you to talk to me, maybe I can get you to talk to your brother. If I can contact him maybe I can…” But what would he do? Tell a total stranger to travel cross country during a pandemic to talk to the spirit of his dead brother and convince him to move out of his old house? “Can ghosts use Zoom?” Castiel mused aloud and twisted his lips in dry amusement. “It’s just vampires who have the whole mirrors and screens problem, right?” He pushed his laptop away from him on the bed and shut the cover with a resolute _snick. “Ugh._ I’d better wake up tomorrow and find out that this is just a bad dream.”

Castiel curled into bed, thoughts racing until exhaustion overcame him, and he slept.

Over breakfast the next morning, Castiel emailed his realtor with the plan he’d sculpted overnight. He knew both himself and Sam Winchester had worked through agents to complete the sale. Surely he could convince his realtor to contact Sam’s realtor. Castiel would be in touch with Sam before the end of the day, his ghost problem would be solved, and he could move on with his life.

((( ༼ •̫͡• ༽ )))

**One Week Later**

How one man, in the age of internet connectivity and goddamn social media, could be so elusive was beyond Castiel’s comprehension. He’d crafted a story to his realtor about finding something of Sam’s in the house. That the thing was _Sam’s brother_ seemed best left unstated.

Castiel just needed an email address or a phone number. Or, if the realtor could pass along his information, Sam could contact him instead. It should have been easy to resolve.

However, Sam Winchester seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth as soon as the house sale had been finalized. According to Castiel’s network of realtors, his phone number was disconnected and he hadn’t replied to his former realtor’s conscientiously written email about possessions discovered in his former home.

Castiel had found, through obsessive searching, an Instagram feed he was reasonably confident belonged to Sam. It had been regularly updated up to around a year ago - up until the time his father and brother died. Now, Sam could be anywhere. He might be dead too, for all Castiel knew.

The one good thing about the apparently fruitless search was that the ghost of Dean Winchester was also quiet. Maybe Castiel had gotten through to him and he’d…moved on, or whatever it was ghosts did. He should have felt relieved, but instead found himself draped with rootless unquiet.

One evening Castiel was preparing dinner when he stopped chopping vegetables and looked around him. “I don’t know where he is,” Castiel said to his warm kitchen. “Your brother. Sam.” He paused a moment, waiting for the chill to rush into the room. After a moment, he continued. “But maybe you and I can talk? Maybe…maybe I can help you pass over?” Silence continued to surround him and his shoulders eased. “Or maybe I already did. Maybe the moment you saw I wasn’t your brother…”

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Castiel said as he scooped up handfuls of vegetables and dumped them into a warm pan. The photos that had accompanied the articles showed a young man close to his age, smiling over the roof of a gleaming car. He’d looked happy. Castiel wondered if they’d been close - the Winchesters. They probably had, he decided. “Maybe you can find your brother. Find some closure.” He sighed. “I hope you find peace.” Realization dawned on him as his food cooked. It was funny how fear faded over time until it was just another thing he rolled into his life. Disease, job loss, ghosts…apparently Castiel could adapt to much more than he’d given himself credit for. With sudden clarity, he murmured to the quiet kitchen, “I wish I could help you.”

He ate his dinner. He cleaned up. He got ready for bed slowly, in his quiet house.

When Dean first appeared, Castiel was brushing his teeth, eyes glazed over with exhaustion in front of the mirror. Looking back on the experience later, he commended himself on not shrieking, or leaping forward and hurtling himself against the hard edge of the bathroom counter.

In muted but unmistakable color, an apparition flashed across the face of the mirror. It was a man, standing behind Castiel’s shoulder. He was tall, taller than Castiel by an inch or so. His eyes seemed hollow, shaded heavily, and his lips were gray. A leather jacket swamped his shoulders, and his chest was hollow enough that Castiel could make out his towel rack behind him. “Dean,” Castiel breathed, recognizing him instantly.

The apparition drew up his mouth in a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “The one and only,” he said. He flickered like the end of an old movie reel.

Castiel turned around slowly, hands holding onto the edge of the counter. “You’re still here,” he said as the mirror crackled with frost behind him. “In my house.”

The ghost turned up his hands and his jaw dropped with shock. Then his mouth snapped shut and he rolled his eyes. “Ya think, genius?”

It was so…so ridiculously juvenile, and it cut his fear off at the knees. An incredulous smile tugged at Castiel’s lips. “Just what I need,” he deadpanned. Humor felt like a tentative step onto ice. “A sarcastic ghost-in-residence.”

Dean shrugged and a breeze fluttered the towels behind him.

“Your brother isn’t here. I don’t know where he is,” Castiel said, watching the ghost carefully. “I tried to reach out to him but…” It was Castiel’s turn to shrug.

“Sam’s at college,” Dean said slowly like he was reciting lines from a prompter. “He’s— He’s studying law. Gonna be a big shot.” He flickered again.

“I don’t—“ Castiel edged further away from the ghost, remembering the wind that had torn apart his living room. “If he is, I don’t know how to reach him. Is there any way you can just…fly to him?” He flapped a hand around like a wild bird.

To his surprise, the ghost laughed. “Fuck if I know,” he said. And with a small electric pop, he was gone. As before, the chill receded swiftly, leaving condensation on his mirror and beading on Castiel’s skin.

Castiel took his toothbrush into the kitchen where there was a comforting lack of mirrors, and then pulled out the Ouija board before settling on his couch. If the ghost - if Dean - came back, then he’d be ready. Castiel fell asleep like that, in his quiet, warm, haunted house.

((( ༼ •̫͡• ༽ )))

Despite what his baser instincts screamed at him, Castiel started to talk to the ghost as he went about his day. “No word yet from Sam,” he’d tell his refrigerator. “Nothing yet,” he’d say consolingly to his bookshelf. “Leave my computer alone,” he’d tell the kitchen at large any time he stepped away from work.

After a few days of this, the ghost appeared on his own.

“Hey,” Dean said. He still looked sallow, cast in blue-gray shadows. But he settled against the bookshelf like he had weight to throw around.

“Jesus fuck!” Castiel shouted, dropping the mug in his hand. It spilled tea across the floor and a large chip splintered off the lip. Castiel stared accusingly at Dean, and then at his mug.

The ghost grimaced. “Sorry?” Dean said. He held out his hands, and then crouched down. His fingers passed into the wood. “Uh, I’d help you clean it up but…”

Castiel groaned and stomped off for a towel before he even had time to realize that what he felt was surprise, and not terror. Not this time. When he came back, he smiled slowly at Dean like he might a skittish animal. Gently, he spread the towel across the spill. Nearby, he could make out the edges of the bookcase through Dean’s legs.

“Sorry,” Dean said quietly. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

“Existentially speaking?” Castiel asked. “Or location?”

Dean laughed and a lightbulb tinked threateningly. “Both?”

Slowly, Castiel wiped away the mess, rolling the towel into itself and setting it on top of the broken mug. “Can you—“ He pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is going to sound rude, and I shouldn’t feel guilty but…” Castiel swallowed air. “Can you leave? Or are you trapped here?”

“Dunno.” Dean said quietly. “I’m here. Until I’m not.”

“And then?”

“And then I’m nowhere. S’far as I can remember.”

Castiel backed to the couch and settled on the far end. “I’m sorry,” he said. A lifetime of drilled-in manners welled up inside him like a terrible bubble. “Do you,” he cleared his throat. “Do you want to sit down?” He gestured to the couch.

Dean flickered out into nothing and then he was _there_ , sitting on the other end of the couch. The ghost blinked in surprise. “Thanks,” he said after a long moment.

Knitting his fingers together in his lap, Castiel contemplated them before staring again at the apparition _sitting_ on his couch. “So,” he said.

“So,” Dean agreed.

Castiel laughed, and if it was a little wild and high, he didn’t think it was unjustified. “I’d like to try to help you. Move on or…or find your brother. Or whatever it is that’s keeping you here. I guess you’re my quarantine project,” he concluded. _There._ He nodded. A project was something he could control. It was quantifiable, with a goal at the end, and steps he could work into a list of tasks.

“Your _what_ project?” Dean asked, face screwed up in confusion and looking so affably real for a moment that Castiel forgot he was talking to a ghost.

“Quarantine project,” Castiel said easily and then he remembered the date on the articles for the accident. He rubbed his temples and sucked in a breath. “Long story,” he groaned. “It all started a few months ago…”


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel ran in the country now, on the long, quiet roads which leaked out of the city. There, the world was corn and soybean. Green and open, it made the concrete anomaly he spent most of his time in feel like a blip. The city bled from suburb to cornfield quickly, and it felt like peeling off a layer of skin - aching and satisfying in equal measure.

He’d worked long hours recently. Too many hours, really. His days blended too well into the next; he felt like an automaton running on a punch card schedule. Castiel ran, sweat stinging his eyes and body singing his freedom, reminding him that he was still alive.

 _Still alive_. His thoughts circled back to Dean, as they had so often lately.

The first few months of Castiel’s life in his new home had been spent with an invisible ghost, living with cold and wind and a nameless fear. But the ghost of Dean Winchester had grown more manifest over the course of several weeks.

Now Castiel watched movies with a ghost and talked to him about his day like it was perfectly normal to seek the opinions of a resident spirit. It was something about the way Dean spoke to him - casual and pleased to see him - that set Castiel at ease. It made him feel normal, if normal included bundling up constantly in the middle of summer. Of course, nothing about the situation was truly…normal.

Castiel used to think a great deal about the soul, but as an abstract concept against a rubric of the rewards or punishments of an afterlife. Now, he thought about it in terms of concrete actions: opening doors, flipping through movies, walking outside. Laughing. Touching. Castiel’s feet beat against the gravel shoulder. Queen Anne’s lace thunked into his knees and delicate sideoats grama tickled the skin above his socks. The air felt hot, dusty, and so thick he could eat it on the tines of a fork. He could touch these things. Smell them. Reach down and pluck a grass blade to taste and twirl between his lips.

The mortal world was a gift, and Dean was trapped back in his house - in Dean’s old house - unable to touch or taste or breathe. It wasn’t fair.

Castiel’s lungs burned at the thought. It wasn’t fair at all.

Again, his thoughts traveled towards the concept of Heaven. If a soul could exist on Earth, surely there could be more…beyond. And if there was a better life in the great after, Castiel had a duty to help Dean find it. Castiel knew this. He’d said as much to Dean time and time again. And yet, the books on spirituality and metaphysical transformation went unread. It was always too late, too early, too much to do. There was always tomorrow, after all.

Castiel ran, and tried to create a plan to free Dean. Castiel ran, and tried to ignore the rock gathering mass in his gut at the thought of being alone again.

((( ༼ •̫͡• ༽ )))

That evening Castiel settled on the couch, a plate of pizza in one hand and a beer in the other. He set them on the coffee table and picked up the remote. The living room was quiet, the calm before an electrical storm. “Dean? I’m ready.”

With a flicker of lights and a rush of cold, Dean appeared beside him. He looked almost solid these days, his coloring warm and the detail from his freckles down to the weave of his shirt discernible from just a casual glance. His eyes, once near hollows, sparkled. Dean grinned, then glanced at the meal laid out on the table. His expression fell comically. “Pizza again? Cas, we talked about this.”

Castiel reached for his plate and drew it into his lap, hunching over it protectively. “It’s leftovers.”

Dean poked under Castiel’s arm at the pizza, his fingertip disappearing into the crust. “When was the last time you had something that wasn’t takeout, or out of a can?”

“Last week!”

“Last we— Cas, buddy. Cmon.”

“I’ve been busy,” Castiel insisted. “I just finished year-end close. You know I’ve been working crazy hours.”

“That’s no excuse, Mister Salad.”

“I’ll get groceries on the weekend.” Castiel swatted ineffectually at Dean’s finger. It felt like slicing his hand through an ice bath.

Dean parroted him in an offensively high soprano, but removed his hand. “Man if I were—“ He drew back and shook his head ruefully, lips twisted tightly to one side.

“What?”

Unseen breezes shifted the hair along Castiel’s brow. “If I could hold a spatula without, you know, exploding the food…” He blinked out of view for the space of a few breaths, but the cold remained. When Dean flashed back, one leg was drawn up, his chin balanced on the knee. “I can make an amazing burger,” he said wistfully.

Castiel swallowed against a sudden lump. “Maybe you can teach me sometime?” he suggested.

Dean stared at an unseen point. His skin took on a faded blue tone like a storm wrapped around only him. “Gotta make the time, Cas,” he said at last. “Stop working so much.” He laughed ruefully. “But that’s pot-kettle-black, I guess.”

There were things Castiel knew about Dean. Things his research had told him, and things Dean’s spirit had revealed once they began to talk. He knew that Dean had been a mechanic and worked in construction before he died, and had recently enrolled in a two year college prep program. From Dean, Castiel had gleaned that Dean’s life had been bound around work, supporting his family with long hours at low pay. “How did you learn to cook?”

Dean’s coloring warmed like an autumn sunrise spilling over the horizon. “Cooked all the time for Sammy. At first it was just kid stuff. You know…mac and cheese with marshmallows, beans and hot dogs. That kind of thing.”

“Marshmallows.” Castiel didn’t bother hiding his disgust, delighted when it made Dean laugh.

“Don’t knock it ’til you try it.” Dean shook his head, his arm relaxing and the chill in the room easing. “So sticky, though. Ugh. That’s probably why Sam went on a health kick as a teen. That kid packs away a salad like I tackle a steak. I kept telling him. Sam, you’re growing. You need some meat!”

“Is that why you tried to attack my vegetables?” As soon as the words left his mouth, Castiel regretted them. “I mean. It’s fine. I didn’t mean _attack—“_

 _“_ You’re fine.” Dean flicked nonchalant fingers in the direction of the kitchen. “Had to introduce myself sometime, right?” A furrow appeared in his brow. “Wish I remembered doing that.”

Castiel’s brows shot up. “You don’t? We’ve talked about it before.”

“Yeah, talking’s not the same. Things can be…” Dean swirled his hand in front of his forehead, green eyes distant. “Foggy.”

“I’m sorry.” _I’m going to help you,_ Castiel vowed. He opened his mouth to say as much when Dean flashed again. This time he crouched over the coffee table, where his hand passed right through the remote.

“Movie?” Dean said, fingers scrabbling uselessly through the remote.

“Um. Right.” Castiel set his cooled pizza plate on the couch cushion next to him and reached for the remote control.

“Wait, no.” Dean looked back at him, eyes alight with mischief. “Let me try something.” He snapped his fingers. There was an electrical pop from something in Castiel’s house, but the television flicked on instantly. Dean crowed in triumph.

“I cannot believe you just did that.” Castiel laughed.

“I’ve been practicing!” The light in the corner flickered at his delight.

“Dean.”

“We watching a movie or not?”

Castiel rolled his eyes as Dean flickered back to the couch. “Can’t believe you’re making me watch these.”

“They’re classics, Cas.”

“The first one came out six years ago. That’s not a classic.”

“Friggin’ philistine,” Dean grumbled.

Castiel hooked an arm over the back of the couch and turned toward Dean like a sunflower facing the sun. “The book’s a classic. I’ll give you that. And I read it when I was ten. Don’t see why I have to watch three movies about it now.”

“Cas,” Dean groaned as though he were in deep pain. “You’re killing me.”

“Felled by a movie opinion. Tragic.”

“Shut up and eat your old pizza.”

Laughing, Castiel pulled up the movie and as it played, started to eat. Dean sat next to him on the couch, the cold coming off of him like he was an ice carving. If…ice carvings had warm green eyes, an animated smile, and an unfair zest for the smallest trappings of life. _Maybe,_ Castiel thought as he settled into the movie next to a seemingly rapt Dean. _Maybe it was those things that kept Dean here. Movies and sunrises and the simple act of existing._ Who was Castiel, after all, to guide anyone? Helping Dean to find Heaven or oblivion or whatever greeted the soul at the end of a journey on Earth seemed a ridiculous act of hubris. Maybe Castiel should simply enjoy Dean’s company

From the comfort of his couch, with Dean beside him spouting more movie facts than Castiel could possible absorb, the answer seemed easy. Dean would pass on to the next life when he was ready. For now, Castiel reaped the benefits. He’d been lonely for years but living with Dean? Well, it was a revelation.

((( ༼ •̫͡• ༽ )))

“I used to make this for Sammy. For a while we lived down around Chula Vista,” Dean said as Castiel was preparing dinner. “No,” he paused with a sharp laugh. “You’ll crush ‘em before you even get started.”

Castiel let the deeper cold of Dean’s fingers wrap over his and guide his grip around the ripe avocado.

“You gotta be gentle,” Dean said, a cool breeze over his shoulder. “Hold it like this.” Dean guided their hands to the side. “And then you slide the knife.” Together, they carefully sliced into the avocado, making neat quarters. “You skin ‘em, we’ll bread ‘em, and then we’ll fry ‘em,” Dean said with gusto. “Trust me, these make the best burritos.”

“They do sound amazing,” Castiel said, happily allowing Dean to guide his hands through process. “And you learned to make this when you were eleven?” He looked at his counter, already a complete disaster with eggs, spilled bread crumbs, and dusted flour. “In a motel room.”

Dean laughed warmly and suddenly he was standing beside the counter instead of sliding into Castiel’s space. “Yeah, well, a dresser-top’s as good a counter as any. And my dad didn’t care. You can just pick avocados off the sidewalk there and flour’s cheap. Get a little day old bread, a little dumpster dive, and you’re practically good to go.”

“Sounds appetizing,” Castiel said dryly.

Dean’s nudge was like a bolt of ice in his side. “Come on, man.”

Castiel set down the peeled avocado on the cutting board and turned towards Dean. The ghost regarded him back warmly, his lips turned up in a self-deprecating smile. Castiel took his time taking him in. Dean’s eyes were warm and green and _alive_ , sparkling with mischief and memory. His hair looked touchable, like Castiel could reach out and run his fingers through it. Like he was a warm, living thing instead of the cold concentration of spirit that he actually was.

Castiel cleared his throat. “I admire your inventiveness,” he said at last, voice only a little rough. “But I’m reserving judgment. For now.” He looked back at the counter, at the array of ingredients Dean had persuaded him to bring home and attempt to cook.

“So difficult to please,” Dean sighed.

“You like it,” Castiel countered, unaccountably pleased to see Dean’s arch look turn soft. “Help me with the next step?” He tried to only focus on the recipe, the direct step-by-step like a fence he could erect between them. Still, Castiel melted too much inside when Dean cupped his hands and guided them with the sparks of energy that passed between them. Castiel quirked a smile at their hands. _How strange_ , he thought. How strange to feel perfectly happy in this moment. In _these_ moments with Dean. Sometimes it felt like his entire life had led to this peaceful home. To Dean.

Dean’s childhood hadn’t been happy, full of too much uncertainty - even once his father had managed to anchor their family in a house. From the sound of it, neither of Castiel nor Dean had managed to escape without lonely scars etched into them. That Castiel found someone now for whom connection seemed easy seemed like a miracle. And a curse, of course, given that one of them was dead.

They had finished breading the avocado and the fruit was gently frying in Castiel’s single pan when he asked, “Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like if you’d grown up differently?”

“Different how?”

Castiel shrugged. “Stay in one place. No…culinary masterpieces made on motel countertops? That sort of thing.” He glanced to watch Dean’s face closely and while the ghost didn’t change his expression, the room shuddered with sudden ice.

“What, like that helped you?”

“Point,” Castiel admitted.

“What would my life be like if I’d had some kind of apple pie, picket fence?” Dean shrugged. “Sure, I mean, what kid hasn’t wondered who they’d be if they were richer or, or..?” He shook his head. “But I had Sam. And that was enough. It was always enough. I think I raised him right.”

“I’m sure you did,” Castiel contributed over the ensuing silence.

“Wonder where he is.” The question turned tinny like it had been murmured into an empty can. Dean blinked out with his entire body, before flashing back half embedded in the counter. When he looked up at Castiel again, his eyes were lost, gaze distant. “Where’s Sam?”

Castiel looked away, taking up the spatula and nudging at the avocado. The pieces left streaks of oil in their wake, like comet contrails. He still hadn’t managed to contact Dean’s brother and the more time that went on, the more he feared the worst.

“I looked out for him my whole life. That I can’t be there for him now. It’s killing me, Cas.” A lightbulb blacked out in a sharp _plink._

“Dean.”

“Sounds like a bad joke,” Dean continued as though he hadn’t heard him. “It’s killing me,” he parroted himself. “Fucking useless in life, in death, just like my dad and now he’ll never— And I’ll never—“

“It wasn’t your fault. None of this was! That truck—“

“He was drunk,” Dean hissed and cold coiled around the stove like a snake. “And I just sat there and let him kill me. And now Sam’s alone and—” The remaining lights flickered and Castiel saw the other version of Dean’s spirit. The broken one that had shown up in pieces and fractures when they’d first begun talking to each other. The bloody face, pale skin. The torn clothing and weeping gashes that never healed. A nightmare stood in his kitchen now, all the warmth bled away as dark memory overtook Dean’s spirit. Dean’s words spat over his purpled lip. “All my life I never stood up to him, never dragged myself outta his shadow, just barely got Sam free but it dragged me in. Dragged me down.”

The kitchen dimmed as energy leached from the lightbulbs. In the sudden dark, the burner gleamed like a baleful eye, winking around the pan. Castiel dropped the spatula and backed away from the stove. “I’m sure Sam’s okay,” he said, fear spiking in his gut for the first time in weeks. Months.

“My whole life,” Dean muttered, image sputtering now like a failing hologram. “My whole life.” His look was sudden and jarring in its directness as he met Castiel’s gaze. He looked lost. Afraid. Small. “Where’s Sam?” he asked. Dean’s voice fell into something small and achingly young. “Where’s my dad?”

“He…he died. Your dad did,” Castiel said swiftly. “I don’t know about Sam.” He held up both hands. “I’m helping you _find_ Sam. Remember?”

“My dad’s dead?” Dean muttered, like he was trying an idea on for size. “What happened?”

It was Castiel’s turn to be confused and it rattled in his gut uncomfortably like marbles in a jar. “The crash. He died in the crash. With you?”

Dean looked down at his body then, and traced a hand along his torn and bloodied shirt. He flickered again.

Castiel swallowed hard. “It’s okay,” he tried, soothingly. “You’re okay.”

Dean pressed a hand against his illusory wound, then passed it through his own body. He shook, or the lights trembled. “I’m dead,” Dean said. “I’m…dead.” When he looked up again, the warmth in his eyes was entirely gone. “Where’s Sam?” he asked in a panting howl. Wind picked up in the house, scraping the spice containers across the counter and whipping the blinds into a chattering frenzy.

“I—“ Castiel backed up further, his hands undrawn, palms out.

“I— I can’t get out,” Dean said. His voice shook as he looked around the kitchen and Castiel got the sudden, clear picture that Dean wasn’t seeing a single piece of reality. “I can’t get out,” Dean’s voice shrank. “The car. So hot. Can’t get out. Can’t get out. _Can’t—“_

With a loud crack, the lightbulbs burst, tossing the kitchen to darkness. The wind stopped just as quickly as it had begun, and the cold fled just as suddenly. It took several moments for Castiel to lower his shaking hands, and another minute for him to curse and rush to push the burning pan from the stove and switch it off.

Glass crunched underfoot and blood tickled down his cheek.

Castiel looked at his ruined dinner. “What am I doing?” he asked the smoking avocado. “What the _fuck_ am I doing?”

((( ༼ •̫͡• ༽ )))

When Dean finally reappeared two days later, it was late at night. Castiel lay in bed, failing to sleep. Dean flickered into view with that same gorgeously tragic half smile that knit Castiel into disastrous knots.

“Cas,” he said quietly in response to Castiel’s sharp breath. The circles under Dean’s eyes were darker than usual, as though he hadn’t slept. Which, of course, he hadn’t. Castiel could see his curtains rippling beyond Dean. Through Dean.

“Dean,” Castiel said, his lips lifted in tentative greeting. “Are you okay?”

Dean reached for him and then dropped his hand before it even drew close, and Castiel knew he was looking at the crimson scab cutting a jagged line across Castiel’s cheekbone.

“I’m fine,” Castiel assured him. “Don’t worry about me. It’s just a little cut. A scratch, really.”

Dean slumped down through the bedding as though the effort of holding himself above the covers was too much. “I shouldn’t have done that. Lost control. I don’t know what came over me.” He laid a translucent hand over his face and flickered. “Dunno what happened.”

Castiel held up one finger and then reached around Dean to his bedside table. He pulled over his phone and flicked it open. “I’ve been doing some reading,” he explained, eyes on his screen. “And I think maybe I found something that can help.”

“Cas, I don’t deserve—“

“Fuck deserve.” Castiel raised his head then, to let Dean soak in his hard, bright look. He watched him - watched him flinch at the scrutiny. Castiel saw him - strong and bright and trying so hard - and tried to beam back all he saw into Dean again. “I’ve been doing some reading,” he started again. “And maybe I found a site that doesn’t read like complete bullshit.” Castiel held it in front of Dean.

The page was old - internet old - with a cascading marbleized background layered over blinking gifs of six pointed stars. _On the Nature of Ghosts_ titled the lengthy page. “It’s good stuff. I think it’s got a way to help you, you know... Cross over?”

“Ah, the internet. Nothing’s ever wrong on there,” Dean scoffed.

“Dean.” Castiel started scrolling. “I’ll summarize it for you. Point one,” he emphasized over Dean’s derisive snort. “Ghosts disturb electrical systems.”

“Well that’s just...common knowledge,” Dean said. “Ever seen Ghostbusters? Hmm, I wonder where they got _that_ idea?”

“Point two. Ghosts can be incorporeal or corporeal.” He looked pointedly at Dean, and his semi-transparent hand on the covers. “You’ve been both.”

“Again. Ghost 101. Any dumbass can write that down.”

“Point three. Ghosts have unfinished business.” Dean glared and Castiel scowled. “You _do_. Don’t look at me like that. It’s gotta be Sam, right?”

Dean lifted one shoulder and then dropped it again.

“And four. Ghosts are tethered to something. Like an object.”

“ _Tethered_? Really? Like a dog?”

“At first I thought—“

“Sam moved out, in case you didn’t notice. What, did he leave behind my Zepp posters? My record collection? My car? ‘Cause I sure as hell only see your shit in here.”

“Dean.”

“Cas, this is a waste of time!” Wind picked up, fluttering the curtains, and Dean cursed.

“Dean, what if there’s a reason you’re here and not with Sam? What if you’re trapped in this house? Tethered to it? This says it can be something small. Something you can hold. With a piece of...a piece of you in it.“

““That’s the dumbest shit I ever heard,” Dean said, but softly. Like he was considering it.

“Just...think, okay? I thought it was your brother keeping you here. For the longest time. But this site...I think we’ve got to consider it. Do you remember anything that might have gotten left? I know you said your memory of Sam here is patchy after you...you know.”

“A piece of me?” Dean asked distantly, flickering with concentration.

“Like, a comb with hair in it. Or a baby tooth. Or...or blood?”

“Blood?” Dean was nearly inaudible. “Blood.” His already translucent body faded until he was barely more than an outline against the curtains. Wind picked up in Castiel’s bedroom.

Castiel felt sweat break out in a cold flush along his arms and neck, steadying himself for the tornado of Dean lost again in a rage, uncontrolled.

“I remember Sam,” Dean mused quietly instead, slowly returning to focus. “Remember watching him grieving and trying to reach out. It was so hard to break through, back then. Wanted to tell him how sorry I was, you know?” Illusory tears gleamed in his eyes. “I remember Sammy.”

Castiel held his breath. He didn’t dare make a move. He could only watch Dean, mesmerized as always, and feel himself caught in his own false nets of longing and could-have-beens.

“There was a bracelet. Never took it off. He gave it to me when he was fifteen. He was so smart but…he had bored hands and thread safety pinned to his jeans. Kept him stable in class, you know? My idea,” Dean smiled and immediately solidified by several degrees. He looked at Castiel with clearer eyes. “I saw it in the house after I died. Sam had it. There was...there was blood on it. Guess someone cut it off. Gave it to him.”

“Where is it now?” Castiel whispered. “Is it here?”

“I tried to reach him,” Dean said, sill buried in memory. “He was crying. I had to try. Blew the shit outta the kitchen. Plates, glasses, friggin’ knives and forks everywhere. I— I couldn’t stop.” He looked pleadingly at Castiel. “I couldn’t stop.”

“Shh, I know.”

“So much was broken. And the bracelet? I didn’t see it again.” Dean gasped and wind sloughed through the room. “There were holes in the walls, Cas. I punched holes in the walls. Sammy got ‘em patched up and then—”

Castiel had scrambled out from under the covers before he had time to even form the thought. “Let’s go.” He pushed himself off the bed, falling half into Dean’s cold form. “I’ll help you find it,” he promised. “Dean, I’m gonna set you free.”

((( ༼ •̫͡• ༽ )))

Castiel’s promise was more easily made than achieved. He took vacation from work, locked into his home with a new purpose this time. Together, he and Dean gutted the kitchen systematically.

Dean couldn’t help, but he guided Castiel through cutting into his walls, cautioning him about electrical lines and insulation, and laughing at him when Castiel recoiled from ancient newspaper spilling from the wall cavities.

At the end of the week, Castiel’s kitchen was a skeleton and the bracelet was nowhere to be found.

Slumped on his kitchen floor, pressing an ice cold beer against his temple, Castiel apologized. “Maybe there’s nothing holding you here, I don’t know. Maybe it’s—“

“All in my head?” Dean laid on the floor, bobbing his chin from side to side as Zeppelin (his choice) smoothed the air of the kitchen. He sighed and gestured towards his forehead with one spooling finger. “Wouldn’t be the first time. It’s a mess up here.”

“At least you’re pretty,” Castiel said before his brain quite caught up to his mouth.

Dean stopped bobbing his head and opened his eyes, pinning Castiel with his gaze for one long moment. Slowly, he smiled with a look both taunting and a little shy. “You’re just trying to get in my pants,” he rejoined, a little breathlessly. A spark kindled in his eye.

“It’s incredibly unfair,” Castiel ended up saying, “that ghosts even have to wear pants.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean looked back towards the ceiling and then haltingly closed his eyes. He smiled faintly. “You gonna spend your afterlife commando?”

“Obviously. A man’s got a right to go naked in his own afterlife.”

Dean laughed, and the strange bubble tension between them burst. “I’ll work on it. Step one. Master pantlessness.”

Castiel drank him in, this spirit trapped in his home, gracing his home like a living, breathing presence. _I don’t want you to go._ He thought this quietly, kept it close like Dean might see if shimmering in the air between them. “What’s on for tonight?” he said instead.

“Goonies. No,” Dean amended quickly. “Space Balls.”

“Both?”

“Don’t you need to work in the morning?”

Castiel mimicked him, turning the words of concern into a nag, and Dean rolled his eyes.

“Both. But no asking questions the whole damn time.”

“I’ve seen the Star Wars canon by now. I’m ready.”

“You only think you’re ready, padawan. C’mon. You got that work email to send, right? And then we’ll get you some food and it’s movie time.”

“Of course.” Castiel hefted himself up to stand. It didn’t feel odd anymore to agree to the suggestions of a ghost.

But as they settled to watch the movies that evening, Castiel knew undeniably, that he longed for more. Though little space passed between them these days, they were eternally separated by the barrier of mortality. It left Castiel in an increasingly frustrated state of extremely cold and overly warm whenever they were together.

As Dean laughed and flickered and occasionally disappeared beside him, Castiel longed to touch him. To hold him just once before he freed him.

((( ༼ •̫͡• ༽ )))

In Castiel’s dreams, he _could_ hold Dean. Touch Dean. Taste him.

That night, Castiel dreamed.

He woke to warmth and the slide of another leg against his own. Castiel couldn’t seem to open his eyes, but that didn’t matter. Lifting his hand, he traced along Dean’s warm, sun-dusted shoulder, curving his fingers along his bicep and stroking his thumb over the sensitive skin of his inner elbow. He drew up his knee and Dean moved with him, suddenly no longer just parts in the darkness but a solid body next to him. Under him. Over him.

“Dean,” he murmured and lips moved over his ear, whispering things he couldn’t hear.

Castiel slid his hand down Dean’s muscled back, down to the curve of his ass. He cupped his palm around flesh. He pulled him in closer, found his lips, and kissed him sweet and deep.

The dream changed. A light breeze ruffled his hair and trees sighed around them, over them. Sun warmed their skin.

Pulling back from the kiss, Castiel saw that they were now in the park ringed by trees, rolling hills, and nothing else. Dean’s lips were kiss swollen, red from friction. He smiled and the light turned autumnal so that Dean’s hair was gilded with gold. Castiel moved his hand from Dean’s disappointingly jeans-clad ass back to his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw up to his ear and then curving around to the delicate hair that grew at his temple.

Moving his hand back to Dean’s shoulder, Castiel gripped him and pushed until he toppled over onto the picnic blanket with a laugh.

Fingers caught Castiel’s belt loops. Fingers fumbled at his own shirt.

Castiel dipped over Dean, over the warm body beneath him. Around them, the blanket turned into waves pulled by the movement of their bodies. Pushing Dean’s shirt up to reveal soft skin and fine hair, Castiel flushed hot and bent to kiss and lick.

There was something not quite right about it - a dulling of sensation. It made Castiel kiss and nip with more gusto, trying to feel the body beneath him. Trying to feel Dean’s hands on himself.

Dean fisted a hand in Castiel’s hair and drew him up. That was better, and Castiel groaned as they pressed more fully against each other, shirts knotted over chests and under arms.

The fabric between them turned everything plastic and unreal, so Castiel pressed their hips together. He ground his aching cock against Dean, dragging it against his concealed length. “Dean,” Castiel gasped into Dean’s throat. A pulse beat there, quick and quiet as a bird.

Castiel fumbled at Dean’s belt. Fingers worked at his own fly. In the time it took to gasp, their jeans were effortlessly open and Castiel had his hand in Dean’s boxers, stroking his warm length. Or Dean had Castiel's cock in hand. Or… Or, it didn’t matter because finally there was skin surrounding his dick and they were getting somewhere. Castiel moved against Dean’s hand, gasping for air against his neck. He felt wrapped up in him. Engulfed by him.

“Dean,” Castiel sighed into Dean’s mouth, chasing a release that wouldn’t come. “Dean. Dean!”

Castiel woke abruptly, sweat-sticky and frustrated, with Dean’s name on his lips. He shifted his hips experimentally as awareness returned to him. He was in his bedroom and he was, disappointingly, now awake. Castiel let out a small groan when he found himself twisted in his sheets. He shifted, pulling his hand from where he’d apparently been clumsily groping at his own cock in his sleep, and wriggled to free his arm from the binding sheets. He let out a long, slow, frustrated breath.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice emerged from out of seemingly nowhere, loud in the quiet room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaalmost done with this, butterflies.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter is up! Thanks for reading <3

Castiel blinked hard and his breathing changed as sudden panic gripped him. He pressed a hand to the cooler sheets outside of his sleep-made cocoon and pulled himself up to peer around the room. “What—?” His mouth felt dry. Awful. Castiel swallowed, licked his lips, and tried again. “What are you doing here?”

“You were calling me?” Dean sounded uncertain. “You called my name, so I came.”

“I—“ The dream still felt raw, wrapped around Castiel like a bed partner. “Sorry. I think I was dreaming.” He shifted himself further up onto the pillows, and slid both legs up to tent the sheets. Castiel felt almost painfully aware of his erection, but apparently sudden embarrassment wasn’t enough to cause it to subside.

“Was I in it?” Dean sounded faintly amused, but Castiel couldn’t make out much in the darkness. Was Dean fully manifest? Was he lingering on the edge of mist?

The chill in the air that always accompanied Dean’s manifestation should have helped control his body’s reaction, but apparently Castiel’s signals had gotten thoroughly crossed. Cold meant warmth to him now. Familiarity and friendship and desire. Maybe this is why he confessed with a rough murmur, “You were in it.”

“A bad dream?” A sigh of wind cooled the sweat on Castiel’s skin and Dean was suddenly just a foot away, sitting with his legs crossed on Castiel’s mattress. His features were clearer now, semi-solid form limned by moonlight.

So. Castiel must be perfectly visible as well. He felt his ears warm and dropped his eyes away for a moment, struggling for words when what he really wanted was to touch, taste, feel— He shifted his hips restlessly, and immediately regretted it.

“Oh.” Dean’s voice changed to something like surprise, drawing Castiel’s attention. A devilish smirk crossed Dean’s lips and he quirked an eyebrow. “A good dream.”

“Fuck.” Castiel pushed himself the rest of the way upright, the rustling sheets passing effortlessly through Dean to wrap around Castiel’s legs. Castiel leaned forward and closed himself over his tented legs, propping his elbows around his knees and burying his face in the cave of his arms. “Fuck,” he muttered into the hollow there.

“Well. I’m…flattered.” The confession was soft and so close to Castiel’s ear that it ruffled the hair at his neck.

Castiel’s reply was a sharp laugh.

“No, really.” Cold touched the nape of Castiel’s neck, raising all the hairs there. It felt like the gentle stroke of fingers. Reluctantly, Castiel raised his head.

Dean’s face was inches away, fully manifested in the moonlight. He looked real and touchable and Castiel flexed his fists open and gripped the sheets around his knees to keep himself from reaching out and trying. Dean’s hand remained on Castiel’s neck, gentle and cold.

“I would if I could, you know.”

Maybe it was his exhaustion, Castiel decided later. Or the way dreams clung if you thought about them too much in the moments after waking. “What would you do?” he whispered.

For a moment, Dean looked surprised. His mouth dropped open, he took Castiel in from tangled hair to tipped up knees. For a spirit, Dean was incredibly accomplished at the simulation of life, and he sucked in a short, hitching breath as he watched Castiel - like it was too much. Like he needed more. His tongue wet his lips and Castiel was helplessly drawn to watch it. To drink in every bit of him.

Dean seemed to notice Castiel’s focus and he parted his lips deliberately this time. Leaning forward, crowding into Castiel’s space, he whispered, “First, I’d kiss your neck. Kiss it slow, just there.”

His finger placed on Castiel’s pulse point felt like static. For that matter, Castiel’s mind felt like static. He couldn’t move, frozen into the moment, and his flagging erection pulsed.

“Do you like that? Is this okay?”

Dean’s voice filled his awareness. His nearness was almost too much to conceptualize. Castiel nodded, raising his chin just a little, baring his throat. “Yes.”

“Good. That’s good because I—“ The sheets shifted on the bed as Dean’s half visible hand gripped them and moved them. A hand slid down Castiel’s shin and Castiel closed his eyes at the feeling. With his eyes closed, Dean almost felt real. “I’d kiss you here.”

Castiel whimpered as freezing energy closed on his throat and just as quickly, was gone.

“Sorry,” Dean said. “I— I forgot.”

“S’okay.” Castiel still burned for him. “Keep— Keep going.”

Dean didn’t kiss him again, but Castiel could feel him like a steady, swirling energy at the base of his throat, his jaw, the shell of his ear. Dean’s palm curved around Castiel’s shin, dipped under the sheet to cup the long muscle of his calf. His fingers started to travel upward. Inward. “Lay down?”

Castiel lowered himself in the bed, sheets deafening as they slid around his shifting body.

“So perfect.” The sheets slithered down Castiel’s body, pulled by the forces Dean summoned. Fingers touched the hem of his shirt and Castiel stopped breathing for a moment. “I’d find out what you like,” Dean said, and Castiel exhaled. “Suck a mark into your throat. Push up your shirt.” The hem of Castiel’s shirt moved, sliding up his abdomen. Hair prickled along his trail and he raised both arms to the pillow like he was giving a lover space to work.

Dean stayed close, but his only touch remained a possessory hand curled around Castiel’s leg. He bent his head towards Castiel’s midriff and his voice seemed to surround Castiel now, like a cloud of energy. “I’d kiss you here. Press my tongue into you.” The shirt moved upward inexorably, and pushed up past his nipples. “So sensitive. Hard for me?”

Castiel let out a gasping laugh because it could be arousal, or cold. It really didn’t matter.

Dean looked up and met Castiel’s gaze. “You should touch yourself.”

Groaning with relief, Castiel immediately pulled down one arm and slid it down under the sheet, under his boxers, to close around his aching length.

The sigh of wind rustled the room. “Good. That’s good. Don’t get yourself off yet. Close your eyes.” Castiel closed them. “I want you to picture me. I— I’m between your legs. Pushing them open.” Pressure at his knees made Castiel moan and he let his legs fall open, the sheet billowing down between them.

“Hold on.” Castiel kicked off the sheet, letting it pool around his feet as he brought his legs back, pulled up and splayed wide.

“I’ll kiss my way up your— Your gorgeous thighs. Fuck, they’re just so… And then I’ll spend some time there in that hollow between your leg and your— Do you want me to touch you?”

“Yes.”

“You can move. You should—“

Castiel flexed his hips, pushing into his hand and imagined Dean in the vee of his legs. Imagined his tongue and his lips as Dean murmured low words and static mounted in the room.

“I’ll take you in my mouth. Your dick. Your balls. I’ll put put my hand on your— I want to feel you everywhere. Faster, Cas. I want to watch you lose control. Come on. I’ll play with your nipple. You like that, right?” Castiel brought his other hand down and thumbed over his nipple. Pleasure sang through his body. Dean was all around him, no longer just spirit pretending to be flesh but energy pressed along him, a cold wind whispering in his ear about all the things he’d like to do to Castiel.

Castiel let himself fill up on it. He moved his hand over his cock and let his other trail across his body like it was Dean touching him. Dean bringing release. Dean—

He arched. He pulsed. Castiel came with Dean’s name on his lips.

The wind in the room subsided. When Castiel finally opened his eyes again, it was to Dean lying on the bed next to him, propped up and watching him with a delighted smile. “So, baby. Was it good for you?”

Castiel clapped a hand over his eyes but he was feeling too good to do more than laugh. “Asshole,” he muttered.

“You like it.”

Castiel sighed, sated but long-suffering. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I do.”

((( ༼ •̫͡• ༽ )))

Talking to Dean was always the highlight of Castiel’s day, and Castiel tried not to look too closely at it. That his best friend was a ghost seemed far more ordinary after Castiel’s wet dream turned (sort of) real. It was all a matter of perspective, Castiel reasoned. Hanging out with a ghost was infinitely more reasonable than getting talked off by said ghost. Once. Or twice. Or…multiple, wonderful times. And if he didn’t look to closely at any of it, then it was all…normal. Right?

Castiel didn’t look too closely at the joy he felt in Dean’s presence. He just wrapped himself up in it instead. Dean would leave when he was ready, or when the after-afterlife called him. Until then, Castiel would treasure the time he had. He pushed down the guilt that he’d stopped trying to save Dean and send him onwards to whatever lay beyond. What could he do, after all? Hadn’t he already tried hard enough?

Regret that he had stopped trying crashed down around Castiel like a tide, then, when he found the bracelet.

Weeks ago Castiel had finally converted his second bedroom into an office. As the pandemic lumbered on, he ordered a desk and a chair and an actual home printer. That afternoon, he’d printed off a report so he could lay it out across the floor, get down on his knees with a pencil, and work the presentation into something better. One of the sheets had wafted out of the stack and sifted lazily through the air - only to slot itself perfectly into the gap between the wall and the baseboard.

Castiel had noticed the gap - the baseboard pulled away a solid quarter inch in places - but had until that moment successfully ignored it. Pulling out the paper, the bracelet was an obvious snake of color pressed against the wall. “What is this?” he murmured. But as he dug the tip of his pencil in to lever out the braided bracelet, he knew. Castiel pulled it out and laid it on his palm as his heart began to race. It was thin - thinner than he’d pictured. The band of red and brown obscured the blood on it, but darker patches blotching the pattern betrayed it.

He knelt next to the baseboard, the bracelet held in one hand, and felt his stomach plummet down to the basement below. Here it was, then. For a wild moment, he contemplated hiding it. This time, he’d push it deep between the baseboard and the wall where the threads couldn’t be seen. It could stay there and then Dean could—

“Dean,” Castiel said, voice skipping. He cleared his throat. “Dean. I found it.” Cold filled the room. Cold formed like a body next to him. “I found your bracelet.” He looked up.

Dean knelt next to him, purple and pale. “I can feel it,” he whispered. His eyes were hollow again, shadowed deeply over exhausted cheekbones. “I don’t know why I couldn’t before.”

“I don’t want you to go.” The confession slipped out of Castiel and he sealed his lips after them. But it was too late.

Dean’s look was intensely sorrowful, but he lifted his finger to Castiel’s cheek. He traced the faint scar there, skin still angry from his wound when the kitchen exploded. “I gotta. I’m losing myself a little more every damn day. Some day— I don’t want to—”

Castiel felt his chin tremble and he closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see Dean when he said, “How should we do this?”

“Fire? Like that page said to do?”

“I’m not ready.” Castiel closed his fingers around the bracelet, forming a fist that he clenched close to his body. “Dean.”

Wind picked up the room. “I can feel it. Knowing that’s there. It’s like I finally get to read the end of a book.”

Castiel’s laugh came out short and broken. “Endings are overrated.”

“Nah.” The breeze in the room continued, fluttering Castiel’s papers and betraying Dean’s agitation. “Sometimes you need ‘em.”

They knelt on the hardwood floor for unmeasurable minutes before Castiel finally sucked in a breath and opened his eyes. He looked at Dean, taking in the bruised purple of his spirit. “Let’s do this right now,” he said in a rush. “Before I lose my nerve.”

“Otherwise I’d have to ghost wrestle you for it,” Dean tried to joke, drawing his mouth into a half smile. “Tickle fight you for it?” he suggested as Castiel rose to his feet.

“You try to tickle fight me and I’ll encase this in concrete. Keep you around forever.” Castiel’s throat burned. He didn’t bother masking the hitch in his voice.

“Eternal tickle fight. Bold move.” The wind dropped as Castiel moved towards the door, the bracelet in hand.

“I’ll get— Trash can and matches?”

“That should do it. Fire’s supposed to set me - uh, ghosts - free. Right?”

“Damn if I know. But yeah. That’s the theory.” Together, they pulled a metal trash can from the bathroom and a box of matches from the kitchen. Castiel propped open his back door for air flow, and knelt on the cool tile just inside the doorway. Tears ran down his cheeks, his chin, his throat. They were unstoppable, or maybe it just wasn’t worth it to try. He looked at Dean for a long moment, the box of matches in his hand. “Gonna miss you.”

Dean’s lopsided grin was gentle, but tinged with rosy relief. “Gonna miss you too.” He reached across the trash can and cool electricity grazed Castiel’s shoulder. “You look me up someday.”

“Afterlife booty call?”

“You know it.” Dean’s gaze moved along Castiel like he was drinking him in. “I’m ready. Cas, I’m ready now.”

Castiel responded to the urgency, the desperation layered under the request. He lit the bracelet on fire, dropped it into the trash can, and watched flame curl and lick away the fine threads.

The wind from the outside was no match for Dean’s energy. White and fire engulfed Dean and Castiel let out a broken sob as fire burned away the rest of Dean’s tether. It was beautiful, and horrible, and at the end he closed his eyes to it.

When smoke ceased to sting his nostrils, Castiel opened his eyes.

Dean knelt in front of him, brow furrowed.

“What?” Castiel said, astonished.

“What?” Dean parroted him, but unintentionally. His eyes were wide, his mouth slack in astonishment. “It— It didn’t work? I’m still here.”

Castiel felt his face crumple then - out of relief or worry, or some horrible, unnamable mix of emotion. He dropped his head into his trembling hands. “Fuck,” he said into his palms. After a time, he said, “Guess that website was full of shit.”

“Guess so.” Dean’s voice sounded strange and Castiel looked at him. Dean stared out the door into the back garden. A light breeze ran along the hedge leaves and a cardinal sang in the wide oak that spanned the property line. “Dunno if I’m happy or not.”

With a shaky laugh, Castiel confessed, “Same.”

They sat in front of the open door until the sun shifted low. “Maybe it is Sam, then. Keeping you here,” Castiel suggested. “Maybe you need to talk to him before you…go.”

“Maybe.”

Castiel looked at his hands. He ran his fingers over his skin, cold from shock but still far warmer than Dean’s spirit. “I’m going to hire a private investigator,” he said resolutely. “They’ll find your brother for you. I’m gonna bring him home to you, Dean. I promise.”

((( ༼ •̫͡• ༽ )))

After the botched banishing, a distance arose between them. With one goodbye under his belt, Castiel didn’t think he could manage another. As soon as he found Sam, that would be it. Dean could move on and so— So could Castiel. He _would._

When Victor Henriksen called just two weeks later saying he found Sam Winchester, Castiel couldn’t even muster surprise. It seemed so obvious now that he should have made this move months ago.

“We found him, Dean.” Castiel sat cross-legged on his couch, his phone cradled in his lap.

Dean flickered into the room, his usual breeze like a sigh across Castiel’s skin. For a moment, he stood on the opposite side of the coffee table. He face read like an aching combination of sorrowful and hopeful, brows knit and lips lifted. “Yeah?”

“Yes. I’ve got his number. Do you want to— Should I call him?”

Dean’s affirmative whirlwind groaned through the room.

Castiel nodded. “Okay. Okay, I’m gonna…” He sucked in a breath. “You ready?”

Dean nodded solemnly.

“I’m nervous.”

At that, Dean grinned and jammed his hands into his ethereal pockets. He shrugged. “Me too.”

Castiel set his finger over Sam Winchester’s new entry in his contacts and then pressed it. The phone rang. A man picked up. Castiel’s heart thundered in his chest as he put the phone on speaker. “Hello, this is— My name is Castiel Novak. I’m calling for Sam Winchester.”

“This is Sam.”

“Hello, Sam. I’m the person who bought your old house.”

“Oh!” The voice on the other line sounded young. Surprised. “I though you were calling from— Is everything okay? With the house?” There was an awkward huff on the other end of the phone that sounded so much like Dean it took Castiel’s breath away.

“Yes? Yes. No, sorry. Everything’s fine with the house.”

“Okay. I’m not sure why you’re calling?” After another beat Sam said, “Actually, I’m not sure how you got my new number. I didn’t give it to my realtor.”

“It’s a long story.” Castiel grimaced at Dean who was making expansive _get on with it_ gestures. “I found something of yours. In the house.”

At this Dean crossed his arms and raised his brow in the universal sign of _Really?_

Shrugging expressively at Dean, Castiel tried again. “I wanted to ask you about your brother.”

There was a long silence. “My brother,” Sam said at last. “What about him?” He sounded guarded now, and Castiel hurried on.

“There was something of his. I found it in my office. Um, one of the rooms. And I thought of you. You know, same last name and everything.” He winced, wondering how he was supposed to explain any of this across the phone. Maybe he should push for a video call. Or have Dean speak to his brother himself? It seemed like a risky move, and he and Dean had agreed that Castiel should try to get Sam to come back to the house without attaching a ghost story to it. “I thought you could come and pick it up.”

“Uh,” Sam laughed. “I’m in California. You realize that, right?”

“Sure, but I—“

“Can you mail it to me?”

“Um, I—“

“Actually…” Now Sam sounded thoughtful. “I was going to drive out there next month. Try to visit him. Maybe I could pick it up, after all.”

“Oh.” _A whole month more with Dean._ Castiel tried to deny the absolute joy he felt at the prospect. “Is he buried near here?”

There was a longer silence this time. “Buried? What the hell are you talking about?”

“I just assumed— I thought—“

“Dean’s in a coma at Ganet Hospital. He has been for a year.”

“Dean is—“ Castiel’s entire body went numb.

“What did you find?”

“What?” Castiel stared at Dean, who looked every bit as shocked. _This must be what an out of body experience feels like._

“What did you find in my old house?” An edge of impatience, and possibly suspicion tinged Sam’s tone.

“I have to go,” Castiel said hurriedly. “Thanks, uh, for the call.” Hurriedly he pressed the call end button. In the sudden silence, he stared at Dean. The living room was dead still, and colder than ever.

“Dean,” Castiel said quietly. “You’re alive.”

With a look of shock and faint atmospheric pop, Dean disappeared.

((( ༼ •̫͡• ༽ )))

He didn’t return.

Castiel tried calling out for Dean the rest of the afternoon. Night fell, died, and rose again as a new day. Still, Dean didn’t reappear in the house. There were no cool breezes, no unexplained chills. Just one house, echoing with the pacing of its lone occupant. That morning, Castiel went for a walk.

Ganet Hospital was a sprawling complex that took up an entire block in Castiel’s neighborhood. There were multiple entrances for the different care wards - entrances that Castiel had never needed to navigate. Now, he made his best guess as he attempted to storm the hospital.

Nervously, he checked the loops of his mask and straightened the line of his shirt before he admonished himself. This wasn’t a date, after all. Sam had said Dean was in a coma so it didn’t actually matter what Castiel looked like. _Yet._ Armed with little more than hubris and hope, Castiel was determined to wake up Dean Winchester. If he could only get in there and just…talk to him. Press their palms together and see for himself that Dean was really _there._

Castiel had rarely had occasion to enter a hospital, enjoying a relatively healthy life and suffering enough distance from family that he’d never needed to visit anybody. He was therefore entirely unprepared for the system of access-controlled doorways and screening desks set up like an obstacle course beyond the entrance.

He approached a service desk warily, eyeing the plexiglass erected over the “Information” sign and the woman staffing it. The woman looked up as he approached. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m here to visit someone.”

“Due to COVID-19, we are only permitting limited visitors for some of our patients. Patient’s name and birth date?”

 _Shit._ “Dean Winchester? I don’t know his birthday. It…never came up?” He tried a feeble grin, then remembered that it was utterly obscured by his mask. At best, he’d just given her slightly more closed eyes than usual. His mind spun for an explanation. “Um. He’s my boyfriend. Or, we were dating. But not for very long. Just a little while. And then, well, you know how relationships are…” His words died away.

She raised a brow at that, and Castiel swore he heard a disbelieving laugh. But she typed something anyway and then pursed her lips. “We do have one person here by that name, but they’re in one of our long-term intensive care wards. Sir, I’m afraid we can’t allow any visitors.”

“No visitors? But—“

“I’m sorry, sir.” Her expression softened as she noticed the devastation in his tone. “That’s an extremely vulnerable ward and we can’t risk a visitor who—“

“No. No,” Castiel shook his head and took a step back. “I understand. I— Thank you. How is he doing? How’s Dean?”

“Sir, I cannot disclose that to you without written permission from his current health care agent.”

Castiel closed his eyes briefly. “Sam.” Between the lines of Dean’s stories, Sam had come across as Dean’s greatest protector. Castiel couldn’t think of anything he could possibly say to persuade Sam to give him, a total stranger, access of any kind to his brother.

Giving her a jerky nod, Castiel spun to head straight for the exit as fast as he could when he paused again. Turning towards her he asked, “This might sound strange. But…if you could tell me where he is, maybe I can just sit outside. Sit close to him, even if I can’t talk to him.”

“You just want to…sit outside?”

“On a bench,” Castiel said. “Maybe. Or wherever.” He’d sit on the ground, settle on a sidewalk. Hell, even climb a building as long as it meant he’d be a little closer to Dean.

Her head tilted for a moment, like she was taking his measure. Then she nodded. “Okay, tell you what. You head outside and hang a left out of the doors. There’s a courtyard a little ways down. That ward’s sort of close to the right-hand corner of it.”

“Thank you.” Castiel clasped his hands like a benediction. “Thank you so much.”

“Yeah,” the woman sounded bemused as he quickly retreated from the building. “No problem.”

Pushing through the door at the side of the large revolving door, Castiel hurried towards the courtyard. When he found it, the small courtyard proved to be little more than a mown rectangle, no doubt only existing to provide extra window frontage for patient rooms. There were two small metal benches on either side. He set course immediately for the bench on the right.

Folding his hands, Castiel settled his arms on his knees and bowed his head. It felt like prayer, but more raw than he’d ever managed to summon at any other time in his life. “Dean,” he began. “I had this plan all cooked up. It’d be just like a movie. Perfect for you, right? I was gonna sit by your bed and take your hand. I was going to tell you— To tell you to your face that you’re still alive. Like maybe the sound of my voice—“

Wind soughed through the courtyard, but it was only that. The early fall air was still warm, the sunlight golden and steady. Castiel looked up at the surrounding walls, at the drawn curtains and darkened panes showing rooms beyond. He wished he could just look inside. “You know, I even tried to think of a way I could sneak in. Like a TV show, I’d just steal a doctor’s coat and someone’s badge and walk right in.” He slumped further. “But I can’t. And I wish I knew how you were doing. You still haven’t come back home. To— to the house. And I’m so worried. What if you’re doing worse? What if I made you worse because I just keep pushing and pushing and—“

His phone rang, loud in the quiet courtyard. Castiel fumbled it out of his pocket and with a full body jolt, saw Sam Winchester’s name on the display. He immediately pressed it to his ear. “Sam?”

There was a minute pause - barely longer than a handful of seconds. “Hello, is this the…hospital?”

“No,” Castiel replied slowly. “This is Castiel Novak?”

There was a muffled expletive and then Sam said, “I’m so sorry. I think I hit your number by mistake. Um. You’re the guy. With the house?”

Castiel blinked at the summation. “That’s me,” he agreed. “Sam, I—“

“Sorry, it’s been a crazy morning. Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve gotta call back the hospital this morning before I head in to work and—“

“The hospital?” Castiel interrupted. “Is something happening with Dean? Is he okay?”

“He’s waking up.” There was a pause, as though the news had burst out of Sam uncontrollably. “They’re telling me he’s showing signs of waking and I gotta—“

Castiel could barely process the news. His heart rate leaped, his breathing quickened, and he wanted to shout with joy and cry in equal measure. Dimly, he registered Sam’s hasty dismissal and subsequent hangup. That was fine. That was a fence he might be able to mend another time. But for now, the world narrowed down to one thing.

Dean was _waking up._

((( ༼ •̫͡• ༽ )))

Home had never looked so beautiful, the walls bright with sunshine and the soft warmth of the wood trim. He hung his keys on the rack by the door and practically floated towards the kitchen. He suddenly felt ravenously hungry and the prospect of actually eating something certainly seemed like a healthy way to pass the time.

 _I need a plan,_ Castiel thought as he measured out grounds for coffee and pulled out a carton of eggs. _A way to explain to Sam why I need to know about Dean. Why I need some way to see him._

The eggs were halfway cooked, runny at the edges but firming up nicely in the middle, when an ecstatic exclamation burst out of him. “Thank god you’re waking up! Dean, thank god you’re _alive_. I never dreamed—“

The chill came without warning. Sudden and bitter, gooseflesh rose on Castiel’s arms. Not from fear, or from cold, but from horror. “No,” Castiel said, frantically switching off the burner and turning around to examine the kitchen. “You can’t be here. Dean, you’re supposed to be waking up!”

Dean resolved like a double image on film, patchy but unmistakably him. The sharp lines of the counter and cabinets chopped his body into disparate sections. “Cas.” Dean’s greeting felt like a whisper, and Castiel’s heart ached. Dean was once again in shades of bruised purple.

“What are you doing here?” Castiel pleaded with his heart in his throat. “You’re waking up! You’re alive!”

Dean looked down in confusion, lifting his hands and turning the forearms carefully, as though testing them for solidity. “Dunno.” His voice sounded small. Abruptly, he flickered into another look. Now he was thinner and much more pale. He wore a hospital gown, and nothing else. Slowly, he plucked at the fabric.

“That’s right.” Castiel began to approach him slowly, like Dean was a wild bird he might spook at any moment. “You’re in the hospital. You remember that now, right?”

Dean nodded slowly.

“Good. That’s good. You’ve been visiting me for a long time now, Dean. And we thought you were dead but—“ Castiel sounded like he was on the brink of shattering and he pressed his fingers to his forehead, running it exhaustingly down his face. “You’re alive, Dean. In the hospital. You’re alive, and Sam even says…”

“Sam?” Dean said slowly. His eyes lit at that.

“Yes. Sam,” Castiel said carefully. “You’re going to get better.” If he could will something into existence, this would be it.

“It hurts,” Dean confessed in a small voice. Every inch of him reflected fear like an abandoned child. “It hurts to wake up.”

“Tough,” Castiel said gently, drawing abreast of the ghost. He passed his hand over Dean’s shoulder - through Dean’s shoulder. “I want to hold you. And I need you to get better for that.”

“Me?”

“You,” Castiel said quietly to Dean’s hollow, exhausted face. “I never realized how alone I was until I moved in here, and met you. You make everything better and I’ve been so happy— Dean, I want you in my world. But even if we can’t or you don’t want— I need you alive in the world. You’re so full of life. The most vibrant person I—“

“Half the time,” Dean said, bringing his pale fingers up to caress down Castiel’s cheek, “I felt like I was losing myself. It was like slipping under water and I never knew who I’d be when I surfaced. Whether I could control what I did.” His touch lingered over Castiel’s scar. He smiled and as he did so, his color warmed. “I felt the most like myself when I was talking to you. You make me steady, man.”

“So go back to your body. Please wake up for me.” He could feel Dean now, like a static surface under his hand.

Dean flickered into into his bloodied, post-accident visage. This time, Castiel didn’t flinch away. “It hurts so much,” Dean confessed.

“I know,” Castiel soothed. “It’s going to be hard. But I’m gonna be here. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll help you back to the surface, Dean. Back to me.”

Dean shuddered and he dropped his head against Castiel’s palm, once more fading transparent. “Okay. Here goes nothing,” he said, and then disappeared.

Castiel took a deep, shuddering breath in the suddenly quiet kitchen. “Here goes everything,” he murmured as the kitchen warmed quickly in the sunlight.

((( ༼ •̫͡• ༽ )))

**1 Year Later** ****

It was hard to picture the previous year now. The uncertainty. The fear and stress. It felt like those experiences belonged to a different person. Like a shaken snow globe now settling, the world sifted into a calmer state at last. There was less fear, and more people he loved in the world. Castiel sat on his new porch swing, one leg drawn up and the other pushing gently against the porch. The swing swayed slowly as a brilliant sunset turned everything golden and rose along his street.

The screen door creaked open and clanked shut with a metallic clunk. “Been waiting for you,” Castiel greeted Dean warmly, crooking his arm over the back of the swing and grinning.

Dean scowled. “Some day I’m gonna walk into a room and remember why I went in there,” he groused, clumping his cane onto the decking.

Castiel pulled a mock sorrowful face. “So you didn’t bring me back a beer?” he asked pitifully, turning back to the sunset with a sigh.

A cold bottle touched the back of his neck and Castiel pulled away with a shout. He laughed at Dean’s pleased expression and accepted the drink. “I’m glad you remembered.”

Dean settled carefully next to him, curling under the wing of Castiel’s arm until they shared their warmth perfectly along their bodies. He slipped his hand into Castiel’s, lacing their fingers together and holding on tightly. “Me too.”

Castiel looked at their joined hands and then turned into Dean. He was watching him steadily, something earnest and deep written across his face. Castiel let himself fall into Dean’s gaze, his slight smile so much more certain and steady these days. Like happiness was something Dean was only just learning to accept. Castiel leaned in and brushed a kiss against Dean’s mouth. He was also on a similar journey. There was so much he didn’t understand in the world. Secrets about life and the afterlife he’d never guessed at, and could barely grasp now. But sitting here with Dean, Castiel thought the secret to life was probably just this. A porch swing, a sunset, and the love of a wonderful man. Maybe in the grand scheme of history these things were small and inconsequential. But for Castiel, they remade the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I’m on Tumblr @ whichstiel. You may also like the Supernatural recap and gif blog I co-write/curate, Shirtless Sammy.


End file.
